


Oh! You Pretty Things

by scrapbullet



Series: Born To [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Implied Non-Consensual Pregnancy, Imprisonment, M/M, Manipulative Thranduil, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant, Spoilers for Desolation of Smaug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>How is such dark magic even possible?</i> Bard has long-since wondered, ever since the day his belly began to become round and firm from the unnatural thing inside. <i>How?</i></p>
<p>"I care not for your games Master Elf," Bard mutters, voice thick with hurt. </p>
<p>Thranduil only blinks, affecting confusion. "My games? A child is a blessing, even a half-breed such as she."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh! You Pretty Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_me09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_me09/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Oh! You Pretty Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857079) by [suirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suirin/pseuds/suirin)



In the deepest depths of a forest - no longer lush but a monstrosity of twisted pathways and deadly assailants - there is a man and a child. Such a thing is not strange at all given nature's desire for procreation, really, for it must be a common sight indeed, at least, in the sprawling cities of men. 

But this is not Gondor. This is not Rohan or Bree or even the crumbling homesteads of Lake Town, where man and woman are free and life is abundant. This is Mirkwood, and no babe has been born within the halls of the great King Thranduil in many centuries. 

This is Mirkwood, and Bard, for that is his name, dares not look upon the soft-cheeked babe cradled in the arms of King Thranduil himself, lest he lash out in fear and anger at the actions wrought by a being far older, nay, _wiser_ , than anyone he has ever known. 

"Will you not look at her?" Thranduil hums softly, adjusting the babe - a girl, a _daughter_ \- so as to inhale the sweet warmth that she exudes. The babe, Sigrid, mewls in the midst of her slumber, a parting of lips that has Thranduil drawing her close, fascinated by the passing of breath. "She is truly a lovely thing; our creation."

Bard grimaces. There is an exhausted resignation about him - face drawn and darkened with shadows, his abdomen thickly bandaged and smelling strongly of herbs and oils - as he works on sanding down an ornate wooden crib. A distraction; and indeed, it is effective, drawing his attention away from the horror and torment of two years imprisonment and subjugation, of foul-smelling potions and subtle seduction and the inevitable Eru-forsaken _pregnancy_ that had been forced upon him.

_How is such dark magic even possible?_ Bard has long-since wondered, ever since the day his belly began to become round and firm from the unnatural thing inside. _How?_

"I care not for your games Master Elf," Bard mutters, voice thick with hurt. 

Thranduil only blinks, affecting confusion. "My games? A child is a blessing, even a half-breed such as she." With a quick and easy grace he steps forth to press the sleeping Sigrid, soft and warm, between them, her head cradled gently and proffered to Bard as like a gift of precious gold and gems. Oh, but so much more exquisite. "She is as much yours as mine."

" _I cannot_ ," Bard hisses. Pain, betrayal, anger - such emotions pass over his face in quick succession. "What evil magic have you-? Why? Why would you-" 

_(Why? Why not? What King would Thranduil be to ignore an opportunity when presented to him? What King would allow it to pass him by, when he sits upon his throne from dawn 'til dusk, required only to witness the gradual decline of his people?_

_What kind of King would Thranduil be, if he did not seize the day?)_

Ah, but Thranduil cares not, and it is with an easy confidence that he transfers Sigrid into Bard's empty arms. The man nigh on deflates as he is faced with the child that was cut from his own body not three days ago, latching on to her tiny curled hands with calloused fingers. 

Bard exhales his grief, voice thick with tears. "She is a monster... but by Eru she is beautiful."


End file.
